


Sea Call Burn

by osmalic



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: omniocular, Gen, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-04-08
Updated: 2006-04-08
Packaged: 2017-10-22 00:40:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/231745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osmalic/pseuds/osmalic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the land with no identity, Ronald Weasley is looking for something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sea Call Burn

**Author's Note:**

> Very special shout-out thanks to ureima and wicked_sister who immensely helped as beta and for sticking with me even when I was giving up. Thank you to dizilla for inspiring this in the first place. All mistakes are mine.

Within seven short years of traveling, Ronald Weasley was surprised he had apparently run out of places to go to. Most people, at the young age of twenty-six, were likely to be either building their careers or getting married yet somehow there he was, sitting in a hotel room in Hong Kong and consulting his charmed travelers' map when he discovered that there was nowhere else to go to. With his scheme never to hop back to a place he had previously been to, it was certainly getting harder to randomly choose a particular place he could travel to.

But the Philippines was a country very near to his current location and he had never been there, so he packed his bags, sent his family a report through the local bird post, and went.

Landing in the Cebu International Airport, he immediately stretched his senses, trying to acquaint himself with the magic in the area, but it surprised him that there was no aggressive pull of the magic such was in Bulgaria, nor the wizened magic of Tokyo, nor even the shy pull of magic as in Kuala Lumpur. The magic was just...there, heavily masked and barely tapped, as if waiting to be recognized.

He moved to the line of Inspection for International Magical Tourists where he had his health and international insignia scanned.

"American?" the man behind him asked cheerfully.

Ronald shook his head and said, "British."

"Ah. Here for the beaches then?"

Again, Ronald shook his head. "No. I'm looking for something." It had been easier to say, over the years. People asked more questions, but none of them were the correct ones.

"I see. The Yamashita Treasure, isn't it?" the man teased.

Ronald was a bit annoyed at the over-familiar way the other tourist spoke with him but he still replied, "No." He paused, thoughtfully letting his fingers brush against the shrunken coffer inside his jeans pocket. "Something like that, though."

* * *

He was allowed to keep his wand, unlike in India where the magicians insisted that if he wanted to live in Nritya Gram and be dependent on magic, he would have to learn how to use the staff. It was insightful, if not comfortable, but Ronald was used to obeying other people—and watching the wizards and witches in India use their staffs for magic was beautiful. In the Philippines, it seemed tourists were allowed to practice any method that they thought was best.

The country was composed of thousands of islands, not all habitable, and Region Visayas, where he had landed on, was composed of five major islands including Cebu, all accessible by boat. It took a day for him to decide where he wanted to go next, and in the end it was the only place he _could_ go.

Siquijor Island, it seemed, was one of the last remaining island that was still greatly populated by wizards and witches.

What startled him was the intense curiosity of the populace to his own views and practices, as if their own magic was uninteresting. He stayed in a hostel run by a woman named Senya with her fisherman husband Dado, and they were used to tourists like him. They were magical people and accepted him into their household as if their relationship was not a business one.

Magic in Siquijor, it seemed, was greatly gendered. _Nong_ Dado frowned when Ronald explained he was not good with potions. "Then what are you good at?" he asked incredulously. He was an older man, around forty, with skin thickened and darkened over the years of catching fish by night and making potions by day.

Ronald thought, for a moment, the man sounded like Severus Snape. "Nothing much," he tried to explain. "I can do a bit of everything, but I can never do potions. I use a wand," he hastened to add, showing his wand to them: 14 inches of willow, with unicorn tail. He lent it to Senya's children who did not know how to channel and instead used it to conduct an imaginary orchestra. Nothing broke.

Senya, meanwhile, was only slightly older than Ronald and, like the women in her town, was never trained with potions but was trained with using nature for her own designs—a more complicated charm method. Sometimes she would walk alongside Ronald and explore the beaches and woods, or they would search for the plants _Nong_ Dado needed for the next market-exchange of potions. She asked questions about Floo transportation and flying carpets, but would only answer questions if Ronald asked it.

"We have no such transportation here," she told him, shrugging when Ronald did ask. On her lap she cradled two babies. "There are no fireplaces here, and brooms are only for sweeping. We travel through swimming, but it takes longer. Do all your houses have fireplaces?"

"Well, yes," Ronald said absently, letting one of Senya's daughters whack his knee with a _camote_ stem. "It gets cold there and we need heat. We—" He meant the British magical world. "—don't use electricity, unlike you."

"It never gets cold here," the woman told him cheerfully, shooing her children away to play. "It's always warm."

"Not warm, it's _hot._ " Ronald watched the horizon harkening the dark clouds. "Unless it rains."

"Unless it rains," Senya agreed, standing and handing him the two babies so she could help prepare her husband's nets, "and then it floods."

* * *

Like Werewolves and Vampires in his homeland, Siquijor had their own literal half-humans, half-creatures called the _aswang_ whose bodies would split into half once the darkness set in: the torso would fly around the island in search for loose pigs while the lower bodies would be left at home to wait. Sometimes, they did not split until the middle of the night and Ronald was free to drink with them until, their hunger unabated, they would excuse themselves and fly off.

He was advised to do the following:  


  1. To not allow children out after sundown ( _aswangs_ used to eat babies and some of the crazy ones still tend to nibble on them),
  

  2. To not make promises he could never keep (to avoid nasty confrontations against _aswangs_ ),
  

  3. To put on sunblock—because, Senya and _Nong_ Dado teased him, his fair skin turned red in the sunlight, almost as red as his hair.

  
He understood the first one and helped Senya and her husband usher the children under thirteen inside the house every night as a return favor for the meals they cooked for him.

The third he did so as well, embarrassed with the nature of his skin. One of Senya's children still pointed at him and shrieked, "Is your head on fire?" while the others chimed in, "Can we dump you in the sea? Will it wash away the dots on your face? Or will they become pockmarks like my mama and papa's faces?" Apparently, Ronald discovered, none of the people there had freckles. Nor had they seen much red hair.

But the second was easy. They had warned him never to make promises because everyone in the island considered every word spoken as a bond; most of all, _aswangs_ were finicky people who were angered easily and it would not do if Ronald made them a promise he could not keep.

Ronald knew about promises.

He was under one, after all.

* * *

Ronald Weasley was always looking for something, but after five days spent in Siquijor he realized it was not there. Staying there reminded him of Hawaii, however, and he didn't want to get too attached there as he did in Hana where the people and the place almost made him forget...

So he packed his bags and took another short ferry ride, stopping over at another seaside town called Dumaguete. Even though it was a small place, there were less people who spared him a second glance, though his flaming hair and height certainly drew attention. But no one asked him any questions; he certainly never answered any. After being with _Nong_ Dado and Senya for a week, he felt less confined and more comfortable until he got a Bird Post from his older brother Bill.

>  _You git,_ (it started out with the most affectionate tone)
> 
>  _Of course you didn't think that Mum might be worried sick about you when your letter only said two lines. No wonder we couldn't get in touch with you. The owls must have kept switching with other birds, they couldn't find you quickly. When are you coming home?_
> 
>  _Mr and Mrs Granger have written_

Ronald had to stop reading at the mention of the names and almost crumpled the parchment. But a few minutes of steady breathing made him return to the letter.

>  _Mr and Mrs Granger have written to thank you for keeping them updated even after all these years. I've enclosed the letter._
> 
>  _I won't ask if you'll be coming home. If you could see Fred and George now, you won't believe it. I won't ruin the surprise. Come home when you can._
> 
>  _Your brother,  
>  Bill._

He looked at the letter from Mr. and Mrs. Granger and, true enough, it contained the words: _"Thank you for keeping us updated even after all these years,"_ nothing more. He tucked the letters into a small packet inside his bag, took a deep breath, and went out to walk by a nearby boulevard beside the sea. He watched the people silently for a while, then gazed out to the sea towards the general direction of Siquijor Island.

"Well," Ronald said a bit out loud, "what do you think? It's not a very big place and I'm sure you didn't even know it existed in the map."

He slipped his callused fingers into his jeans pocket, the pads touching the shrunken intricacies of the coffer lid.

"Just a few more," he whispered, not knowing to whom he addressed it. "We've stuck through this far, we're bound to find that one place..."

He fell silent and gazed into the sea, remembering all the places he'd gone to, wondering about the places he'll go to, and absent-mindedly stroked the coffer lid with his fingers.

 _Just a few more,_ he thought. _We can do it, Harry._

* * *

Ronald took another Muggle plane to Manila, the country's capital and thought it was ugly-yet-beautiful in a Muggle-sort of way. It became incredibly worse when he realized that there was practically no magic there  
as his wand fizzled even at the smallest worded command of _"Accio book."_ It was too hot. The asphalt burned his skin and dried his hair, and he swore it almost melted the soles of his shoes.

It _did_ look like Kuala Lumpur then, he rationalized to himself, without the mysticism. And while it was bigger than Cebu or Dumaguete, there were certainly no seas in sight. Instead, there were large buildings and high overpasses that attempted to tower over each other. He learned "traffic" had transcended into an adjective in the local language to mean the jams that the cars created during rush hour.

It might have been easy to disappear here.

Standing in the middle of a local cemetery turned park, he tried to look for the magic again in the air, wondering how he could easily feel it in Siquijor but not in this grand composition of cities. In the middle of Rizal Park and watching other local people milling around, he wondered if Manila even had any magic at all.

He circled the park and ended in the middle where a memorial stood. Tourist books told him the macabre history of the park: a man had died there for his beliefs. Ronald could not remember why. He looked up at the statue, shading his eyes even as his other hand tightened around the tiny coffer inside his pocket.

"What was his name?" Ronald asked one of the guards.

"Who?" The man looks hot and blank, as if he should be the last person Ronald should ever speak to.

Ronald looked up at the statue again. "Him."

"Rizal. José Rizal. Philippine National Hero," the guard replied proudly.

"How did he die?"

"Shot down."

"Why did he die?"

There was a pause as the man seemed to struggle for a correct response before giving him a shrug. "They didn't like him."

Ronald stood there for the longest time just watching the statue, wondering about the little man who was shown in what apparently was his best suit, standing proud, lonely, on the memorial. He wondered what the man had done to deserve the honor. If he thought his beliefs were worth dying for.

If he regretted it.

* * *

The coffer was always in Ronald Weasley's pocket and was only taken out when he transferred it to another clothing. If one returned it to its original form and held it to the light, they would see that the designs were both ornate and simple, an art that was developed for a specific era.

It was made of iron, steel, and dragon scales, heated by the most skilled wizard artisans. There were patterns of lines and curls that wove around its sides and over its four short legs, making it look like they formed symbols of flowers when, in truth, there was none. The lid was curved at the top but the edges remained sharp over the years, no matter how many times Ronald had accidentally banged it against cement and marble.

The coffer was locked only by a charm, but one so complex that Ronald Weasley would not have remembered it if it had not been for the triumphant way Hermione Granger whispered it to his ear before she died.

On the lid were engraved words, skillfully carved in loving reminder. It contained only two words:

 _Harry Potter._

Inside were Harry Potter's ashes.

* * *

On the rare times that Ronald Weasley allowed himself to despair, he wished he had agreed with the Ministry of Magic to build a memorial for Harry Potter where they would let his ashes lie. It would have been built in Godric's Hallow and Ronald would have spent the last seven years of his life doing something else.

But, while in St. Mungo's racked with hexes and curses from the final battle, he and Hermione had passed the time discussing Harry.

 _"He was a wonderful Quidditch player,"_ Hermione said.

Ron had snorted. _"You don't even understand Quidditch. But he was great, wasn't he?"_

 _"He would have been the best."_ Hermione's voice was soft.

Ron, from his bed, looked at his friend at the other bed in the other side of the room and smiled. _"He still is."_

 _"He wouldn't have liked all that honors,"_ Hermione said suddenly one day.

 _"Hated it,"_ Ron replied fondly. _"Idiot. What I would have given to be in his shoes."_

 _"We can look for a place."_ Hermione's face brightened at the prospect. _"We can go around the world and look for the perfect place. Harry..."_ She stopped and tears welled in her eyes.

Ron finished it for her, _"Harry would have liked to travel."_

The plans were grand and exquisite; they would travel and find a final resting place for Harry, one that was worthy of his name and deeds, probably in Greece or Rome, or America. They would put Harry's ashes in a small coffer and hold it in their hands. They would scatter the ashes over the land. And only then would they allow themselves to live.

But Hermione never got out of St. Mungo's; a few months later, she finally succumbed to the numerously painful curses cast by the now dead Rebastan Lestrange. She whispered the final preparations for their plans: the protective spell for Harry's coffer, before she her body stiffened and letting out a small gasp.

She died in Ron's arms. Her parents took her home and refused to let Ron bring her remains to his expedition.

No one spoke for Harry though, and so Ronald argued against Scrimgeour, pointing out that he was the closest Harry ever had to a family. It was political twisting, Percy later told him almost admiringly, but Ronald was already packing and would not listen to any protests.

* * *

When he realized that Manila held no charm for him, he made plans to visit other places in the country. Perusal of places to go had him decide on a small town called Dapitan; it was, he heard, the place where the hero had been exiled. Ronald didn't want to delay his mission, and he thought it might be interesting to see a place where another hero had lived. There was something attractive about places wrought with tragedy and confinement, he thought—and immediately thought of Harry.

The next day, he Apparated to a nearby Tourism Center and inquired about the swimming transportation that Senya and _Nong_ Dado told him about, then proceeded to spend the day purchasing the necessary equipments and returning to his hotel, ready to leave. There was something restless about leaving the area, and he thought it might have something to do with the lack of magic. In the humid air, he tried one last time to cast a cooling charm but only succeeded in producing a small chill.

 _Hermione,_ he remembered suddenly, _was the only one who could produce an adequate cooling charm._

That night, he placed the coffer next to his desk before falling asleep. And he entered a dreaming area that was almost like the small room that held the Mirror of Erised, only it was empty save for him and another figure.

It was Senya.

She was older there, as aged as her older husband, with her long black hair now turned white. She beckoned to him. _"Is this your past?"_ she asked.

Ronald grew irritated at her. _"Are you following me?"_ he demanded, only half realizing that he was wearing his old Hogwarts robes.

But the woman only smiled. _"You called. Your magic was almost like a beacon, I'm surprised no one else is here."_

 _"I'm not a lighthouse,"_ Ronald said flatly.

 _"You're **something** ,_ _at the very least,"_ she agreed.

Ronald looked around warily. He had dealt with enough Death Eaters to not be suspicious. _"How do you do this?"_

 _"I'm a_ babaylan, _"_ she replied as if it was easy to understand, but the word _‘shaman'_ immediately processed in Ronald's mind. _"I told you I do not know potions but I know charms and other arts. As do you."_

 _"I know enough,"_ he replied, refusing to take the hand she suddenly offered. _"I must go."_

 _"Is the sea calling you?"_

 _"Something else,_ Nang _Senya,"_ he replied, absently remembering the coffer he had placed by his bedstand.

Nang Senya only smiled as if she understood. _"Water calling for fire calling for water. That is the story of our country, where magic flows like water and explodes like volcanoes."_

 _"There are other places that have that kind of magic,"_ he protested. _"Yours is hardly unique."_

 _"No,"_ she agreed again, _"but the magic is so greatly repressed and untouched because we prefer only using a little at a time. Progress is not very fast here, isn't it?"_ And she laughed.

Ronald scowled at her, feeling like she was laughing at something about him even while she was obviously amused at her own country's state. _"Anyone could touch it,"_ he could not help arguing. _"You could use it to become greater."_

 _"So why didn't you?"_ she asked him.

And suddenly, Ronald remembered his friends, Harry Potter and Hermione Granger, who had been great at something and everything, and how he had always thought he was merely a burden to them. _"I'm not that kind of person,"_ he replied stiffly.

 _"Depending on friends," Nang_ Senya said, gently, _"is nothing to be ashamed of. Your temper was always countered by their personalities and decisions. Your identity need not always be tied to theirs."_

But it should be, Ronald found himself thinking as he floated back to consciousness and became aware of the cushions and pillows beneath his body.

Ronald Weasley had never been anything besides himself. He had never been anything besides Harry Potter and Hermione Granger's friend. That was why he was doing this, because he had tied himself to them. There was no turning back.

* * *

The next day, he found himself wishing for Floo powder and a fireplace, or that he could Apparate to the island instead. Swimming transportation required him getting into the water. When the people called it ‘swimming transportation', he thought it was very idiotic of him not to realize that it _did_ involve actual swimming.

It was tiresome because it involved eating a locally produced weed not unlike gillyweed that helped travelers swim faster and stronger; where Muggles needed a day and a half by boat to reach, witches and wizards could arrive within an hour. A simple spell made sure that all his belongings were secured and watertight in his pockets.

Kilometers from the shore, however, Ronald found himself grateful that he opted to use this method.

The bottom of the ocean brought several wonders, and sometimes Ronald could not help but stop and stare at them. There were brightly colored coral reefs and schools of rainbow-hued fishes. Sometimes dolphins and sharks swam among them. There were underwater caves and natural bridges where the land was near. Seaweeds of different varieties, many of which Severus Snape would have coveted, were just a simple pluck away.

And there were seamounts and volcanoes rising from the ocean crust, hundreds clustered together and mostly in lines. Most of them were lined flatly near the populated corals yet there were some that were taller than his small form in the ocean. Some were releasing bubbles of steam, reddish and dark basaltic rocks around them, while others remained dormant, sleeping and waiting for their turn. Breaking through the surface and watching the sky and sea meet in the horizon; Ronald realized just what magic in the country truly felt.

* * *

He was thoughtful when he arrived in Dapitan, mentally contrasting the differences between the lack of magic in Manila and the mysterious pull of Siquijor's power. The place itself had a quiet sort of magic, something too placid but _there_ , much like the rest of the area. Once he had checked his pockets for his belongings, he rented a room in a town next to the port and took another walk at a beach, replaying the pictures of the underwater volcanoes and seamounts in his mind.

There were hundreds of volcanoes under the sea, teeming with life and fire, renewing the earth. Yet here, in this small town of Dapitan, he could clearly see the hero's quiet life unfolding. He wished Harry had lived in this kind of exile.

 _Water calling for fire,_ he remembered _Nang_ Senya saying. _Or maybe it's fire calling for water._

Ronald Weasley pulled out the coffer from his jeans pocket and placed it on his palm, thoughtfully gazing at it for a long time.

"I'm not you, Harry," he finally said out loud. "I think you and Hermione understood that better than I did, I just never listened." He smiled sadly. "I can't think for you anymore. And anyway, Hermione was always better with thinking. Sometimes, I wonder if she knew you more than I ever did."

He paused, as if waiting for an answer.

Then, when he received none, he whispered: "I would have died for both of you—you know that, right?" He looked up to the white crests of waves crashing on the sand, to the sea, to the horizon, to the clouds that floated on the sky. "But maybe I should start living for you instead."

And after seven years, Ronald used the spell that expanded the coffer to its original size before finally whispering the Latin and English words that Hermione had whispered to his ear one last time. He breathed the name of his friend into the lid: _"Harry James Potter"_ , let his tears fall, and let the ashes wind around him, almost blinding him, until the tug of wind brought it to the sky, mingling with the sand, and finally to the sea.

"Goodbye," he shouted to the wind. "Goodbye!" he yelled at the waves.

Ronald Weasley was Harry Potter's best friend, but he was not Harry. He knew that now.

Harry needed to find his final resting place himself.

* * *

That night, Ron Weasley went back to his room and pored over his maps. It would be a shame arriving in Dapitan and not exploring it the rest of the island. He might have to go further south to Zamboanga, or Cagayan de Oro. He had heard magic there was still wild and unrestrained; it would be fascinating to learn just how much it was so. And he would have to inquire about flights going to another country, like Hana or even Hawaii in general; he had liked it there with its volcanoes and beaches. Maybe he should visit Australia again. Or Taiwan. All those places he had visited once but only judged with Harry's eyes.

Or maybe he should go home. It was almost June and his nieces and nephews were very likely spending their days in The Burrow. It was certainly something to think about.

He had all the time in the world.

**Author's Note:**

>  _Nong_ – short for "manong", what you call an older man  
>  _Nang_ – short for "manang", what you call an older woman


End file.
